ONE
MIA
A dozen camerashutters snap like beating wings. I blink slowly against the flashes, my eyes burning. I hate this part of our life—the one where I have to be someone I’m not.
A reporter shouts over the barrier to ask what designer I’m wearing, another fires a question about my heels. I ignore them both, keeping my hand on my hip, poised.
The perfect wife.
But inside, I’m squirming. My thighs twitch as the vibrations flutter along the walls of my pussy.
Oh, fuck.
I lick my suddenly dry lips, my smile faltering for a second before I slide it back in place. The lights are too bright and too hot. My skin is on fire. My nape is sweaty, beads trickling between my breasts.
I try to focus on the swarm of photographers, on the step and repeat banner behind me, on the camera flashes. But the device pulses so hard I swear I moan. My pussy tries to clamp around it, unsure whether to hold it in or push it out.
Am I breathing too hard?
Am I flushed?
Am I about to orgasm in front of the media?
Focus, Mia. Breathe.
But I can’t. Because my panties are soaked. They have been from the second I walked into the building. From before that, if I’m being honest. As soon as I climbed into the limousine and Jensen told me to part my thighs, I knew exactly how this evening was going to play out.
The vibrations of the egg inside me increase and my back almost bows. Stars spill across my vision and my lungs hitch.
Oh, my word.
I’m grateful for the noise, for the hum of journalists, paparazzi, and guests because this time I do moan, low and guttural.
I bite my lip, vainly trying to hold back any more sounds as the egg trembles against my inner walls.
He’s doing this on purpose.Asshole. He enjoys knowing I’m barely keeping it together and that he has control of my body.
I like that too, but I swear if he makes me come in front of all these photographers, I’m going to smother him with a pillow when we get home.
I cast a discreet glance along the banner to where he’s waiting.
Jensen Rivers, CEO of Novariv, tech genius, billionaire, and my husband.
He still makes my heart race the same way he did when we were fifteen. The gangly awkward boy he was then is buried under broad shoulders and a face so handsome it should be illegal to look that good.
He has brown eyes that are easy to get lost in, dark hair he keeps short, and a thin covering of stubble over a jaw that could cut glass. The suit he’s wearing costs more than we had to live on in a month when we were barely married. Back then, the thought of spending money on luxury would make me laugh. Now, he’sstanding there with shoes imported from a top Italian designer and a price tag that makes my eyes water.
Even his watch cost over three thousand dollars. I know, because I bought it for him on our last anniversary.
My breath hitches, and not because of the device inside me this time.
It’s the Jensen effect.
His lips twitch as our eyes lock. I shoot him a look, one that promises pain later if he dares to touch the app again.
That’s my first mistake. Issuing a silent challenge is like waving a red flag to a bull when it comes to my husband.
And, of course, he purposely slaps his thumb against the screen, and the vibrations bite along my already sensitive walls.
